We are the idealists.

I have anxiety attacks. For no apparent reason. Or so it seems. I assume. That there must be a reason. For everything. But I’m too dumb. Or too fearful. To probe diligently. For what’s going on. Fortunately, I’m able to avoid. Going into full-fledged panic attacks. I don’t hyperventilate. Like my mother did.  Instead, I look for ways to divert my mind. For instance, that’s what I’m doing now. Writing. Writing. Writing. About what I am feeling. Apprehension. Anxiety. Maybe I am fearful. Of losing control. Over my life. Of dying. Of being no more.  And I try to relieve my anxiety. By convincing myself. That would be all right. Yes. To return to where I came from.  To nothingness. Which, in a sense, would be relief. Isn’t that what the suicide prone want? Relief. From living. That’s the course that my father took. When he was 38. He wanted out.  From the world in which he was born.  Without his consent. Therefore, my father took full control. He opted out. He learned that we are given a choice. Live or die.  Some of us choose to live. Even if it’s an excruciating experience. We are willing to put up. With the discomfort and perils of living. Maybe because we are afraid to die.  Or because we expect better times to come. We are the idealists. Who believe in a bright and radiant future. --Jim Broede